It feels dishonest to call her a dime,
a penny, a nickel, or a quarter.
A fifty-cent piece doesn’t do it
and even a silver dollar falls short.
She doesn’t slip nicely between the folds
of my freshly bought dark brown wallet
like a twenty dollar bill, creased over
from its dozens of previous owners.
She might shine like spare change;
jingle like a pocketful of coins,
perhaps even grin like a president,
but to me, she’s priceless.
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